


open wide I know you're thirsty

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:08:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s about to slide into the driver’s seat, rev the engine and be on his way back along the mostly abandoned road when the front door of the bar slams open and Coulson looks up to see Clint standing there, shoulders square and a packed bag in one hand, his bow and a box of arrows in the other. He approaches the car, kicking up dust as he moves, until he’s only a few feet away and then they just stare.</p><p>“Still want me to come along?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	open wide I know you're thirsty

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be honest: I'm really rather neutral when it comes to this pairing. so I almost scrolled past [this prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/4305.html?thread=3859153#t3859153) when browsing the avengers kink meme (which I had originally promised myself I wouldn't go near and look how well that turned out) but then I actually saw what the OP wanted and I was completely sold. I originally wanted this to be much longer, but I realized half-way through it that I'm in no emotional state right now to fully commit myself to something that time consuming (and I haven't posted a fic since january). but I'm still pretty happy with this. hopefully the rest of you are too.

_“We are one, after all, you and I. Together we suffer, together exist, and forever will recreate each other.”_  
– **Pierre Teilhard de Chardin**

* * *

It took him longer to die than he thought it would, considering the amount of holes in his chest. He wished, as his body finally started giving up, that at least Clint could have waited for him.

– –

_one year earlier_

His boots are heavy and full of dirt, dust and sweat when he finds himself walking into the last bar on a lonely stretch of a drought–stricken highway, his car out of gas and on it’s last legs of life. The place is dark and stale, almost empty save for a few men with only a couple teeth between them in the back and a blonde slouched behind the counter. A low drone of moaning music drifts his way but he can’t place the voice or the tune, so he forgets about it.

He counts all the empty stools with their cracked and fraying leather pushed up against the counter and chooses the one that’s exactly in the middle, lowering himself quietly onto the seat, brushing his hands together and then drumming fingers against the wood. The bartender looks up, his hair glinting in the dim orange light and blinks a few times, studying him, as if trying to figure out where he knew him from, if he even knew him at all. Coulson doubted it but, these days, he could never really be sure.

“Can I get you something,” the man asks finally, not smiling and not anything else, his face indescribably expressionless. 

“Whiskey,” Coulson responds and then leans a bit closer as the man is turning away, “and your name.” The man falters, hand wrapped around a glass and he just barely glances over his shoulder before going back to work.

“What kind you want?”

“Whatever’s cheapest.” There’s the sound of a cap popping from glass and the glug of liquid.

“You don’t seem like the type to want cheap.”

“I don’t have much of an option right now,” Coulson says, watching the man place the glass down, “You still haven’t told me your name.”

“Clint. Clint Barton.” And Clint holds out a hand he just wiped on an old towel and Coulson grasps it back, tight, and it’s suddenly like a million red ants had just started crawling up under his skin and along his spine. An unsettled look in Clint’s eyes tell him that the guy felt something like that too. Coulson takes a sip of his drink after he lets go and stares down at his own hands – he can feel Clint lingering in front of him.

“Don’t you have a name?” 

Coulson chuckles and looks up at Clint as if staring over the rim of invisible glasses but Clint doesn’t look particularly nervous or concerned and Coulson’s about to break one of his own rules and tell him when there’s a sudden explosion of voices from the table in the back, followed by the unmistakable click of a gun being readied. Coulson stands up, turns quickly around, hand on his weapon that he keeps concealed just in case he has to shoot himself out of a mess. The drunk old men are having an argument in gibberish but it meant something to them, meant enough to threaten violence, and just as the guy with the gun starts aiming for where he thinks the other guy’s head is supposed to be, Clint yells “HEY” and everyone spins in his direction.

And the guy is standing behind the counter with a fucking _bow and arrow_ raised and pointed at the assholes in the back and Coulson, for once in his life, is stunned into a standstill. Clint hasn’t drawn the string back completely, not yet, like he’s being reasonable and the other guys are stuck, more confused by the weapon of choice than the actual interruption, but the one man still hasn’t put down his gun yet.

“Take it outside,” Clint says calmly, “because if you keep this up in here, right now, I will not hesitate to let one of these go. And you should be worried, because I’m not drunk and I am a _very good_ shot.”

There’s a lull as everyone takes a moment to process the information that has just been laid out before them but Clint is pulling back his elbow and taking in this slow breath and then the men are practically tripping over their own and each other’s feet to be the first one out and Clint doesn’t drop his arms until the front door had slammed shut. 

“Phil Coulson,” Coulson says after taking his seat back and finishing his drink. 

Clint grins. “It’s nice to meet you, Phil.”

– –

Coulson has a few more drinks and tells Clint about his car and nothing about who he is, where he used to be or where he was going but Clint never asks so it doesn’t matter. He questions Clint about where he’s from, what he’s doing out in the middle of nowhere and if he’s really as good as he claims and Clint replies with laughter every time a sentence that ended with a question mark made its way over to him.

There’s a spare room in the back of the bar that Clint allows Coulson to use for the night and says that there will be a can of gas and breakfast when he comes back to check on him in the morning. 

“Don’t drink all the alcohol unless you’re willing to pay for it,” Clint says as he leaves the small bedroom, a pile of relatively clean sheets on the beaten mattress but Coulson reaches out, grasps a hand around Clint’s arm and pulls him back.

“You should come with me,” Coulson says and he means it. He’s never met anybody exactly like Clint and he’s not ready to let him out of his sight yet. They could get into trouble.

Clint listens to him and then shakes his head with a smile.

“You’ve had too much to drink.” He wrenches himself out of Coulson’s grip and then pats him on the back. “Sleep it off. You’ll be ready to go in the morning.”

– –

The sun is already unbearable and Coulson is pressed against his car, filling up the gas tank of his black car, his stomach full of eggs and some kind of pork and a shot of vodka. Neither men had spoken a word to one another except an exchange of “thank you”s and “your welcome”s when the canister of gas had been produced. 

He’s about to slide into the driver’s seat, rev the engine and be on his way back along the mostly abandoned road when the front door of the bar slams open and Coulson looks up to see Clint standing there, shoulders square and a packed bag in one hand, his bow and a box of arrows in the other. He approaches the car, kicking up dust as he moves, until he’s only a few feet away and then they just stare.

“Still want me to come along?”

Coulson just smirks in reply.

– –

Nobody ever forgets two men – one with a bow – successfully holding up a bank and leaving everyone inside alive.

– –

“That… That’s a lot of money,” Clint says breathlessly when they’re safely back in their motel room and he sheds his jacket, meandering over towards the bed, eyeing the pile of green bills that was emptied out on the mattress.

“We’ll get more,” Coulson says, washing his hands in cold water and watching Clint. “You handled yourself well,” he remarks as he circles the room, checking out into the parking lot and then making sure not a single crack of the window was visible through the blinds, flicking on a lamp to make up for the loss of light.

“I adapt. It’s not much different from what I used to do, except, you know, I’m not serving anybody alcohol.”

“I don’t know if it would calm them down or confuse them if you did.”

“Probably both.”

– –

People start knowing the names but not faces and that’s okay because that means they can leave town easier and move onto the next. 

The next couple of jobs go better than the first. Nobody has to die.

Then there’s Boise. 

– –

The older man’s blood is warm on Coulson’s face when it splatters and the body falls backwards into a heap amidst the screams of the other patrons who had been sitting silently on the bank floor, the arrow embedded directly into the center of his forehead. Coulson takes a heavy breath, clenching his fists at his sides before turning carefully to face Clint who's already lowered his bow and is staring as if Coulson is the only thing worth looking at in the room.

And time does, indeed, stand still for a few moments, but then Coulson is grabbing their bag and his gun from the spot on the floor where the dead man had thrown it and he’s pointing it at everyone else as he exits through the glass doors backwards. Clint doesn’t come back out until Coulson is already in the driver’s seat and he’s about to ask what the hell he was doing until he sees Clint clutching the bloody arrow.

– –

“What the _hell_ was that.” Coulson’s stopped the vehicle and they can both hear the sirens coming from miles away, but neither of them are going anywhere until he gets some kind of explanation. He’s not against murder, not in the least, not when he has to, but this was unnecessary. Uncalled for. It was beautiful to watch, but entirely out of line. “I had it under control.” Clint checks the rearview mirror and eyes the keys in the ignition before joining the conversation.

“He took your gun. He had the drop on you.”

“He was a sixty–year–old man, Clint. He just happened to catch me at the wrong time. I had it under control.”

“Didn’t look like it from where I was standing.” The sirens are getting louder and Clint looks into the mirror again, eyes narrowing. He can see the cars now, just coming up over a hill in the road and suddenly he feels a hand on his arm.

“Kiss me,” Coulson says and it’s enough to get Clint to stop staring at the cop cars.

“What?”

“Do it. They don’t know they car we left in, but they might know our faces. Now, we could duck down in our seats or we could try to drive off before they pass but I wouldn’t recommend either of those so are you going to do it or not?”

When their lips meet, it’s like somebody pour gasoline over them and lit a match.

They don’t stop until the wailing and flashing lights are nothing but a faint echo in the distance.

– –

Clint keeps the arrow like some sort of trophy.

“My second person,” Clint says one evening while they share a dinner in the backseat of their third car.

Coulson never asks about the first.

– –

He traps Coulson in a corner after a successful robbery and kisses him.

Later, he’ll say he was just making sure that he felt something.

“Did you,” Coulson asks. Clint merely smirks.

– –

A whole year. They spend the money as fast as they get it and bodies collect like spare change. Clint spends a night in jail, but Coulson bails him out before the police can even figure out who either of them are. They explore each other until there’s not a single inch on either of them that they don’t already know by heart.

It should only make sense that it ends in the same place it started.

– –

Clint got off a few shots, sent a couple officers crashing to the ground and Coulson does just as well, but then he feels the bullet go hurtling through his side and he grunts, touches the wound and brings up a bloody hand. 

“Son of a bitch,” Coulson hears Clint say and he wants to tell him to relax, that if they just get back in the car and move, they might make it to the border and they can deal with his injury later, it’s really not that fatal, but Clint is pulling out another arrow and suddenly there’s an explosion of gunfire.

Clint’s dead before he hits the ground and Coulson stops feeling pain by the time the tenth bullet tears through his skin.

It takes him a few, long and agonizing minutes to give in to the shattered bones and the blood filling his lungs.

He’s surprised that Clint wasn’t the one to kill him, like he had predicted the first time they kissed.

But, in a way, he kind of did.

And he didn’t even live long enough to see it happen.


End file.
